


a final stolen thing

by heavensabove



Series: anika trevelyan & her circumstances [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensabove/pseuds/heavensabove
Summary: He's about to hurt her.
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Trevelyan
Series: anika trevelyan & her circumstances [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749697
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	a final stolen thing

**Author's Note:**

> Playing this game during lockdown rotted my brain thoroughly and nothing about it did so as much as this damn romance. That is a good thing, because it makes me want to write.

He’s about to hurt her, after having tried so hard, so desperately not to.

The thought enters his mind and disrupts the haze of passion that’s enveloped it. He pulls away from her, guilt almost clogging his throat.

She lets out a quiet little gasp of longing at the separation that makes his chest burn with regret and desire. Her eyes question him.

He takes her hands in his. They’re so small compared to him, _she’s_ so small; it’s easy to forget that under the weight of her titles and responsibilities lies a wisp of a girl who’s only just stepped into womanhood.

He places the badge between them, and isn’t that what it’s all about anyway, his lie that acts both as a bridge and a wall? It lets him have her and prevents him from ever having her for real.

He tells her again. She stares at the badge. To himself he says that this is the last chance: he knows that if she looks up and says anything other than ‘you’re right, let’s stop’, he won’t be able to.

She doesn’t say that. She’s pliant as he lays her down on his bed of hay and animal skins, adequate only ever for himself but at this moment, it’s stopped mattering just as all else has.

They kiss until they’re out of breath. As he pulls back, he catches sight of the moon in the sky. It’s a beautiful night, warmer than usual. He kisses her all over her face and neck as she runs her hands over his back, into his hair and grips. Her legs hold his hips in place between them. He rubs up against her with certain movements - even through the layers, it makes them both shudder.

She tugs at the top half of his clothes, and he removes them so she has something to do while he peels away all of hers. She shivers as the air envelopes her. He stares down at her and breathes. Maker, she’s fucking beautiful. He’s always been enchanted by her face, by her halla-like eyes and full lips that are so good at forming coy smiles, and yes, he’s admired her figure through her closely fitted casual attire, but it’s something else to see her laid bare.

She hides her face shyly in his pillow as his eyes move up and down the length of her body. He notices the growing slickness between her thighs, glistening on delicate black curls.

Her hands shoot up to clutch the pillow, her cry of surprise hastily stifled as he buries his face between her legs. She slides through his lips onto his tongue like a burst of ambrosia. He holds her thighs open as he drinks from her. She writhes against his mouth, gasping and whimpering. He rolls his tongue against her clit repeatedly and soon hears the beginning of a scream, but not the rest of it.

When he re-emerges, he discovers that she’s bit down on her own hand to stop the sound. He decides that won’t do; it’s his body that deserves her teeth, her nails, her heels digging into it. Every inch of her, at least for tonight, belongs to him.

He removes her hand and kisses her roughly. At the same time, he undoes and rids himself of his trousers. At the first brush of his bare tip against her, she breaks away and looks down.

Her eyes change, darkening with need but also a hint of uncertainty.

He knows she’s never done this before. She told him, the night he lost himself to her. What’s happening tonight would’ve happened then - in a proper bed - had that knowledge not torn into him like a bear’s claws.

She deserves better than him and that will remain true even after the deed is done. But she wants _him_ and he wants her too. How long could he deny it?

He cups her face and tells her he won’t hurt her ( _not like this_ ). She tells him that she trusts him and pulls him down into another kiss, her arms looping around his neck.

He rubs the head of his cock up and down her lips. She’s drenched from what he did before, but he still uses her juices and his own precum to slick himself up. He doesn’t want to take any chances.

He next uses his fingers to prime her, spreading her open, stretching and curling. She whimpers against his mouth and clutches at his shoulders. He’s content to do this until she comes again but she reaches down and stills his hand. She pulls away just enough to whisper that she wants _him_ inside.

He hasn’t been this hard and painful in a good long while. He was afraid the years he’s spent out of practice would fuck him over but he’s found that such things come back easily, body moving on pure instinct.

She arches her back, her head rolling against his pillow, lips parting and eyes fluttering shut, as he pushes into her. Small choked noises escape her and he can’t tell what she’s feeling, which is distressing. Is he hurting her? Is he too much for her, was she unprepared?

Then it comes, a long, drawn out moan as he presses in to the hilt. Her hands fall onto his biceps and her face relaxes, a tear sliding out from one eye and down the side of her cheek. She says Blackwall’s name and for one moment, he’s so delirious now, he thinks ‘Blackwall should only be so lucky’ but he catches himself at the last word, guilt creeping up his spine.

She pushes him, whimpering again. He forcefully squashes the guilt, squashes all thought and dedicates himself to motion. He thrusts slowly at first, getting her used to this, building a rhythm she can learn and follow. She responds, rolling her hips with each thrust, tentatively, then with more urgency as he increases his pace.

He closes his eyes and submits to the sensations. He hasn’t felt this in so long that it’s all new again, and he doesn’t recall ever loving anyone as much as he does her. She pulls from him in a way no one has, anchors him, makes him feel like he _is_ loved. It’s bitter that he didn’t meet her at a better time, before any of _that_ , when he was a young man lost in a tide of bad decisions and influences, but still afloat.

Maybe in another world they were both born at the right time. Maybe in another world they met as children, grew together, played together. In that world he didn’t lose his compassion to the brutality of life, never went to Orlais, never put gold before his own humanity. In that world, she would be his first as he would be hers, and after it was over he wouldn’t need to leave.

Back here, in this world, he grabs her thighs and slams into her. She cries against his shoulder, Blackwall, Blackwall, Blackwall. She scratches him and the pain feels good. He wishes she would scratch harder, dig her nails in deeper, draw some blood.

The night is quiet around them. His head is full of her. He studies her face as he feels her walls ripple around him, loose strands of hair stuck in sweat, eyes wet and kohl smudged in tear tracks. Her lips remain parted as she breathes through her mouth and says the name that’s not his, swollen from his kisses and as red as her cheeks.

He lifts her hips slightly, wrapping one arm around her for support, puts his mouth on her breasts. Then he rubs his thumb in circles over her clit.

Her breath catches. He feels her shudder violently and he holds her steady as she begins to writhe again, his thumb still moving.

When she goes slightly limp, he eases her down, buries his face in the crook of her neck, brings her legs around him and thrusts hard, fast, groaning as pressure begins to build. She holds him to her, sighing, whispering encouraging, loving words into his ear.

It doesn’t take him very long. He stifles his growl against her throat and tries to hold still as he spills himself inside of her. She moans that she loves this, that it feels so good and so right. Later, thoughts of possible consequences will nag at him, but at that moment, it feels right to him too.

The first several minutes of the afterglow he spends unmoving, content to stay inside. She strokes through his hair and down his back, just as happy to remain as she is.

But it’s in his mind that he needs to get off her, needs sleep to claim her, needs the cover of night over him, so he lifts himself up and slides out of her. She gasps slightly at the emptiness, fluids flowing out of her and down her thighs, dripping onto the animal skins. He notes that there’s some blood in it; he’s ashamed that the first thing he feels is not concern, but an intense burst of pride.

He’s still a bastard, in many ways.

Something must show on his face because she runs her fingers across his chest, saying that it didn’t hurt, he shouldn’t worry. He kisses her softly before moving to lie next to her. She turns and snuggles into him, draping her arm across his abdomen, her head on his shoulder.

She tells him she loves him.

* * *

Thom Rainier hears the night’s sounds as he dresses. The sharp wind, the rustling leaves, the crickets and the crackling fire, all seem to be coming in at once, such commonplace things that would be ignored on other nights but feel so intense now, almost accusatory. It reminds him of the night immediately after his crime, when he lay awake in a tent, drenched in cold sweat, eyes staring at nothing but seeing small, butchered bodies.

He can’t bring himself to look behind him. He never slept, just watched, waited for her breathing to even out, for her eyelids to stop fluttering, committing every detail of her face to memory.

It had caused him near physical pain to disentangle himself from her. He’s afraid that if he lays eyes upon her again, he’ll lose the will to go through with his plans.

Already it’s becoming difficult to keep his resolve. His hands are fumbling with the ties of his clothes and his movements are slow and clumsy, as if his body is conspiring independent of his mind to delay him.

He moves briskly towards the stairs when he finally manages to get everything in order. He pauses in the middle of the passageway. He swallows.

He’ll never see her again.

The decision to take one final look is the best and worst thing. She’s lying on her back as he left her, wrapped in furs, loose hair falling across her forehead. She’s curled up partly away from him, but she looks content. Love hits him with such brutal force that he almost drops to his knees. Then hatred, for himself, stabs into him, twisting in his chest.

He wills himself to keep moving, keep moving, keep going. Something is screaming in him, roaring in his head. _He wants to stay_ , oh Maker, he wants to stay right here. Go back, shed all the layers, press himself to her again, inside her again.

He sways on the landing, unable to believe he actually made it down. He takes a deep breath and focuses. There’s no one nearby.

There’s nothing else he needs to do. He will take nothing because prisoners need nothing. He will say no goodbyes, to anyone, not when he couldn’t even say it to her.

But shouldn’t he say it to her?

As the day breaks and sunlight falls on Skyhold, she will wake. She will see him gone and she will make assumptions that will hurt her terribly, if not shatter her.

She waited, for the right person, for someone she could trust completely and feel safe with. She waited for someone she could open her heart to.

She cannot believe, for even a second, that he doesn’t love her.

He’s grateful to Dennet for keeping parchment and quill handy. Ink seeps through and makes a hole in the first note. His trepidation makes a hash of the next two attempts as well. He feeds his failures to the fire and starts anew.

He’s never really been able to express himself through writing and words, empty words, seem so obscenely inadequate. But they’re all he has.

_There is little I can say that will ease this pain…_

“I am deeply sorry.” he whispers as he writes it, and it tastes like ash. He doesn’t have time or he would’ve tossed this to the flames too and tried again. Again and again until he came up with something that didn’t sound pathetic.

He pins it to the griffon. There’s a finality to the action that spurs him to carry on. He leaves to meet his fate.

Halfway to Val Royeaux, he realizes how hollow his eventual execution will be. Justice on the surface, maybe enough for many, but he’s left behind all that was alive in him, bundled in fur.

How can a dead man truly trade his death for his misdeeds? He prays for forgiveness, for this too is a sin.


End file.
